


Heartbeat

by crackinthecup



Series: A Cup of Chaos [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Genital Piercing, M/M, One Shot, Pet Play, Slash, angbang, or in other words 'dear lord what have I written?'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4549437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A spell of caprice. A remote chamber in the dungeons. Melkor has just the plan to divert himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbeat

“Strip.” 

Scant paces from him his master had halted, arms crossed over his chest, a cowl of shadow over his features in the absence of his crown. Mairon quirked a glance over his shoulder. The corridor stabbed back into the bowels of the mountain and was lost in an ascent bending to the left. Torchlight dripped like oil across the dark stone there as echoing screams grated and foundered beneath the jeer of Orcish voices. The evening’s entertainment. 

Yet, Mairon supposed, so was he. 

“I shall not repeat myself,” Melkor said in a voice that lathered copper over his lieutenant’s tongue; and at the lightning-broil in his irises, the Maia pieced himself into compliance. His tunic he doffed, his breeches he unlaced, his boots he untied, and under the Vala’s appraisal he stilled, garments cinched in his hand. The moment seemed magnified through the lagging plummet of each second as Melkor stared and stared and stared. It was warm in the dungeons, so close to the magmatic roil spitting its wrath in the heart of the mountain, yet Mairon shivered. 

A nascent smirk plucked at the Vala’s lips. He worked the fabric out of Mairon’s hand, spilling it in eddies on the floor. The Maia looked downward, in an aborted twitch he made to twist toward his clothing, yet Melkor’s fingers latched beneath his chin and jerked. In one fluid step the Vala materialized flush against him, and those fingers forced his head higher. 

“On your knees.” An exhale peeled from Mairon’s lips at the command; he held his master’s gaze a heartbeat too long, that gaze liquid as the abyss beneath the lap of a lake, and then, slowly, he dropped to the floor. 

Melkor scratched at his scalp, petting him as though he were no more than another werewolf in his own pack, and at the indignity of it, at the squeeze of the Vala’s fingers around the helix of his ear, heat bubbled within him, over his cheeks, between his thighs. And then his master was sweeping his hair into a bun and securing it with a long sliver of bone; stooping over him so that the back of his throat prickled with the smell of ash, drawing a leather collar out of his pocket, buckling it at the nape of his neck. 

As the tongue of leather compressed his trachea, Mairon made to squirm away; yet his master’s fingers were there, curling into the collar and dragging him back. “Stay,” Melkor ordered in the mildly disgruntled tone one might use with a restive mongrel, and tightened the straps. The Maia coughed with the sudden pressure jamming into his windpipe, the percussion of blood at the sides of his neck; but still he knelt, and forced himself to focus on the scrape of the floor against his knees, the texture of the stone, the discomfort needling through him—not the metal leash clanking in Melkor’s hand. But where he expected the leash looped through the collar, he found fingers probing at his length, clipping it to the tiny ring glinting through the underside of his tip. 

Mairon’s gasp was caught by the stone walls and tossed about in mirth. He forced his breath into evenness, forced the thrill shuddering through him into stillness. Yet he did not immediately move with his master; he set his jaw, and stared down the corridor, and was rewarded with a tug on the leash that made something low in his belly capsize. “Come on, boy,” Melkor chided, patting his thigh in the command his lieutenant had demonstrated in the werewolf kennels. And heavily, with cheeks splotched into flame, with arousal flurried between his hipbones, Mairon began to crawl. 

X X 

The corridor echoed of emptiness. The Orcs had been taught better than to gad about in such close proximity to the cul-de-sac their lord had elected for his own use. And it was to this dead end of frowning stone and failing light that he walked his lieutenant, every so often yanking on the leash to hear him erupt into a groan. 

He led Mairon to inch into a chamber scooped out upon the left, halting him at his heel. Raw energy seeped from his very core, and he felt the Maia start as it billowed outward to spark braziers into life. 

Long had the room gathered dust, but tonight fey caprice unspooled within Melkor. A wooden table was the centerpiece of a spectacle of leather and metal, fringed with the spindly, flinging arms of shelves. Indolent consideration hummed low in the Vala’s throat as he guided his lieutenant to the right-hand-side wall and the metal hoop protruding from it; through this Melkor hooked the leash, jangling it through the splay of the Maia’s thighs, tethering him with no range of movement; and Mairon allowed it to happen, allowed the bob of his budding erection to droop with the weight of ring and chains. 

“Your hands,” Melkor intoned with a luxurious unfurling of the palms. The Maia blinked up at his master through flushed cheeks, through parted, wheezing lips, and the Vala felt the pool of desire that had been steadily deepening between his legs suddenly ripple. Mairon tried to swallow past the collar—too well was he acquainted with the iron shackles swinging like corpses from the grooved wheel set into the wall above him; it was with reluctance that he fitted his wrists into Melkor’s fingers. A gasp hurried from him when his master jerked his arms above his head, when the manacles nipped at his wrists. He jounced his chains, not out of any illusion of escape, no—to feel the buck of muscle, the whip of adrenaline at his utter immobility. 

Melkor strode away and left him heaving for air in the stranglehold of the collar. The Vala’s prowling steps crunched amidst the clink of Mairon’s chains, their dainty bare-boned reel. In a slow circle he stalked, each footfall five of his lieutenant’s heartbeats; the Maia counted as he snatched a taste of air, and then another and another, until his heart flagged in its gallop. And then Melkor carved out his halt, decadence oozing from his smile as he selected a gag from the shelves, a hollow ring of metal dangling from leather straps, with four teeth crooking outward from it. He returned to crouch before his lieutenant, fitting the gag to his lips; but with realization fracturing into icy shards in his stomach, Mairon tossed his head, a refusal scrambling off his tongue: “My lord, please, _please_ —” 

Yet the edge of Melkor’s palm scooped into his chin, thumb smoothing past his teeth to wrench his jaw open. The gag he shoved into his mouth, snug behind his teeth, fastening it at the back of his head. The Maia’s cock stirred helplessly, rattling the leash, as he prodded at the metal with his tongue and found it immovable, as he tried to champ against it and found his jaw pried achingly wide. A whimper was raw in his throat as he looked up at his master, and Melkor smiled—fondly, softly he smiled; he flattened the sprigs of Mairon’s hair, mopped up the spittle drooling down his chin in a caress that might have been loving. 

The Vala straightened. He divested himself of his robes, flinging them aside to huddle upon the floor, fingers teasing the tracery of veins over his own erection almost musingly. And then he reached for his lieutenant, he embedded the fingers of his left hand into the back of his skull and tapped the crown of his length against his tongue. Dutifully Mairon licked over the slit, lapping up the fluid there, as his master purred in contentment; and when Melkor canted himself further into the heat of his mouth, when his rhythm picked up into familiarity, the Maia let his eyelids shutter, let his head dive down to meet his master’s thrusts. Yet in an abrupt retreat the Vala slithered away—still grasping Mairon by the roots, he slapped his cock against his cheek. 

A wince convulsed across the Maia’s face, but fleetly he peeled his eyelids back into a withering glower, a noise of protest bursting from his throat. But it was stoppered, severed into a retch as Melkor slammed his entire length into his mouth, cramming past the back of his throat. Mairon choked, straining against the Vala’s fingers, against the leash holding him in place, and from above the chains screeched and clamored. 

“I did not expect this of you, Mairon,” Melkor crooned as he rocked his hips, savoring the silken feel of the Maia’s tongue over the underside of his shaft, reveling in the way he coughed, and spasmed, and shook in his fingers. Spit slicked his chin, his chest, dribbled between his parted knees, and to it Melkor added a viscous smear of pre-come daubed glistening over Mairon’s lips. “I did not expect such _disappointment_. Surely you can do better than this?” 

And without warning he pressed himself back in, to the hilt he coaxed Mairon to swallow him and held him there until the Maia’s struggles snapped with the frenzy of suffocation. Melkor withdrew ever so slightly, allowing his lieutenant’s nose to straighten from the crush against his pelvis, and the Maia gobbled lungfuls of needle-sharp air into the tightness across his chest. He could feel the drumbeat of blood at his temples, the swelling flush as the collar constricted backflow, and the tears, the involuntary tears scalding down his cheeks as Melkor’s thrusts stirred him into choking fits again and again and again. 

With whatever presence of mind he had left he laved his master’s length, he tried to suck in air past his master’s girth—yet his thoughts scattered, a thrumming, blinking haze settled behind his eyeballs, and he sagged limp in the Vala’s grip so that his master might use him and have done with it. 

Melkor’s free hand cupped his cheek, thumb probing at the fresh tears pearling along his eyelashes. And as the Vala felt him heaving around his cock, at last he withdrew; his touch softened into gentleness. He hunched down as Mairon coughed, undoing the clasp at the back of his head, easing the ring from behind his teeth. Mairon winced as his jaw cramped; a hiss of pain ripped from him as he swallowed. 

“Easy now,” Melkor murmured, honeyed and soothing, letting the gag clang to the floor. He dried the Maia’s tears, rubbed saliva off his lips and chin; with careful fingers he grazed against his length, which jutted out in his need even now; he peppered kisses over his sweaty brow, pressed with coaxing tongue into his mouth as he continued to stroke him in a languid rhythm, a teasing flick against the ring pierced through his tip. “Is this not better? Is it not seemly that you behave, that you reap your just deserts?” he whispered to swollen lips, and dipped to burrow a bruising nibble into the junction of neck and shoulder. 

His other hand splayed down, down over his chest, thumb diving into a nipple until Mairon arched into the contact—full, warm over his side, smearing through slippery slaver—and _oh_ , fingers dipped into his cleft to rub at his entrance. 

Mairon mewled against his master’s lips as he breached him with two spit-slicked fingers; his knees shuffled further apart, opening him to Melkor’s touch, and with a twist of his fingers that sparked against that tiny patch of nerve endings, the Vala had him keening his rapture into the crackling gully between their bodies. 

“That’s it,” Melkor encouraged, he greased, he pushed his fingers in knuckle-deep and scissored. “You look so _beautiful_.” 

The Maia panted against his mouth, rocked himself back upon Melkor’s fingers. “Please,” he husked as his hips began to stutter. “Please, my lord, may I—” 

“Not yet.” Melkor planted the words upon his lips, and the Maia was left tasting gaunt consolation when his touch fully retracted, when he loosed the leash from the head of his cock. Mairon’s need grated out of his throat in a whine as Melkor stood, as he strode to the side to bear down upon the lever of a creaking, clattering mechanism. The wheel poking from the wall spun, and with its rotation the chains above the Maia’s head shortened in a shriek of metal. 

Mairon was hauled to his feet by the arms, hoisted to his toes, left dangling there with slobber cooling on his front and his ardor aching between his legs. He tottered, fingers curling around the eyelets of the chains for leverage, and followed the undulation of muscle, the sheen of oil over stiffened flesh, as his master returned to stand but a hair’s breadth away. 

Tongue and teeth cajoled him into parting his lips for his master’s kiss, a brutal crowding of air out of his lungs as Melkor crushed his back against the wall. The impact jarred a grunt from Mairon’s lips, yet the Vala urged him further into the stone, wedging his hips against his pelvis; and then in one wrenching motion, he hooked his legs around his waist. 

Instinctively the Maia tightened his thighs about his master’s waist, crossed his ankles at his lower back, as Melkor braced his forearm against the wall and with his right hand guided his cock past the squeeze of Mairon’s muscles. A moan ballooned into the air, a low sound that stretched and echoed, and whether it was the walls spitting it back or the constant thrum of the Maia’s vocal cords, neither could tell. The Vala nudged deeper still with each roll of the hips, shifting his hand to circle his lieutenant’s length, and the collar was jostled into a bite that strangled and abraded; Mairon writhed, the muscles in his arms howled as he supported as much of his weight as he could—the grind of flesh against stone as the Maia began to slide, and Melkor soldered a hand to his buttock to pull him from his plunge. 

Somehow— _impossibly_ —his master speared deeper still, nerves tingled out a desperate staccato, and in a crux of sensation his back arched clean off the rock. Against the wall his master fucked him with thrusts that jolted and burned, fingers that barreled over his shaft and drew away soiled in leaking fluid. 

Mairon felt himself tipping, spinning— _fraying_ into a juddering orgasm that left his master pinning him to the wall with his bulk, clawing a chunk of his hip into a network of fissured capillaries, stilling his thrusts into precise little oscillations. The Maia could not remember if he had screamed. Shrillness sliced through his eardrums, it seemed to festoon the walls, yet in the dulled, strange viscidity of each lurch of flesh into flesh, it might as well have been his master’s grunts at his ear. 

Mairon sagged in the manacles, for several delicious heartbeats letting his master take his weight and press him into the stone. Melkor was slamming into him, chipping with teeth at the column of his neck; the Maia did not need to look to picture the lurid seep of bruises. The Vala’s climax he felt quiver against him, spurt into him, bow with the dark head upon his shoulder. 

Melkor simply breathed, while his lieutenant strained against rock and metal; tremors quaked in his arms, his trachea felt crumpled, like parchment crinkled in the hand, and the fullness of his master still within him became all too much in his feather-tip sensitivity. 

He rasped a plea at Melkor’s ear, weakly shaking the chains, and with the utmost care his master glided out of him, set him down upon the ground. The trammels cracked open around his wrists in a singe of power, and the Vala was there, scooping him into an embrace; he gentled him away from the roughness of the wall with praise a glowing murmur down his jaw, with a gingerly touch over the throb slashed across his throat. 

Breath skidded into Mairon’s lungs at the brush of fingers over his raw back, and quietly Melkor shushed him, deftly slipping his hands to his collar and letting it plunk to the ground. The cool air of a full breath felt like shrapnel in his lungs as Mairon stood there in his master’s arms, panting, clinging, trembling through each inhalation; he nestled close, nuzzling against the Vala’s shoulder in the faint whiff of ash and the sepulchral freshness of drizzled soil, and each pulse of blood lugged weariness as a torpid drug.  



End file.
